


Sic Parvis Magna

by blackidyll



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Magic, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Surveillance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 21:25:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4977079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackidyll/pseuds/blackidyll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The third time, it’s the way the fine hairs at the back of his neck had stood straight up on a perfectly clear day, and James had wrapped his scarf tighter around his neck as he wandlessly casts an Untraceable spell on himself. From within the still circle of protection, he’d drawn his wand and cycled through a spell series – search, capture, identify, transfigure – finally coaxing a thin thread, spider-silk fine and equally strong, from the currents around him. James loops the silk around his wrist, giving it a faint tug. With time and patience, he might weave enough of the thread together to trace the magic to its source. </p><p>It’s exquisite surveillance magic, a customized sequence of charms; James hopes he doesn't have to kill whoever it is that’s at the other end.</p><p> </p><p>(A Harry Potter!AU that follows the canon events of the HP books, but with no formal appearances of the HP cast).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sic Parvis Magna

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah. Apparently this keeps happening whenever I get stalled writing the Traceability Series - my brain decides to turn to alternate universes. Last round was a Person of Interest-inspired AU. Now it's a Harry Potter-verse AU. You go, brain. 
> 
> Very quickly edited because seriously, I should be writing [Crossing of the Rubicon](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4470299) :'D

The first time, James had brushed it off – Muggle London is full of electricity and technology and mechanicals. Just like how Muggle technology goes utterly haywire in magical spaces, magic has a tendency to react in odd ways in great metropolitan cities of concrete and electricity. But James is an Indeterminate working for the Unspeakables and he knows how to correct for the interference; he had attributed the heightened smell of ozone to an oncoming storm and stunned his target with the added charge of energy in the air.

James operates mainly in Muggle London now, since the Second Wizarding War. Everyone knows about the Order of the Phoenix, clandestine though that is supposed to be, and people have even begun to hear of Severus Snape and his double cover, operating in Voldemort's inner circle. But no one hears about the witches and wizards who worked on the invisible frontline, not _Quattuor_ and the way she'd manipulated the magical supply lines to those in Voldemort's employ, tainting the ingredients she did allow to go through and buying her weight in inside information when they came to negotiate with her, and not _Decem_ , who liaised tirelessly with their counterparts on the continent to seal as many of the international Portkey and Apparition points from the Death Eaters as possible and yet leave them open for citizens fleeing for safety.

And as for James himself – as _Septem_ he'd been right in Muggle London, hunting down Death Eaters specifically targeting Muggles in positions of power. He'd had a brigade of Unspeakables working in his wake – speed-spellers led by an illusionist who was responsible for the overriding cover story they had to constantly adjust, for added casualties and the ever-spreading scale of destruction.

Muggle London might not show the scars of the War, hidden as they are under spells and illusions and carefully cast memory charms, but they are there. There are the remnants of the Death Eaters and their sympathizers, lying low but present; there are the frightened that fled for the safety in anonymity and numbers, hiding from their own families or associates. There are plenty of rogue spellcasters in Muggle London, both benign and dangerous, and so James is ever alert when he’s on-duty, and especially when he’s not.

The second time, it’s the feeling of attention, the afternoon sun a little warmer and brighter on his skin like a spotlight turned in his direction. It’s not a Patronus messenger, which would hardly be discreet in Muggle London, and it’s not any of the summoning or communications spells the Unspeakables use. James twisted the protection rings adorning his fingers, and continued on his way.

The third time, it’s the way the fine hairs at the back of his neck had stood straight up on a perfectly clear day, and James had wrapped his scarf tighter around his neck as he wandlessly casts an Untraceable spell on himself. From within the still circle of protection, he’d drawn his wand and cycled through a spell series – search, capture, identify, transfigure – finally coaxing a thin thread, spider-silk fine and equally strong, from the currents around him. James loops the silk around his wrist, giving it a faint tug. With time and patience, he might weave enough of the thread together to trace the magic to its source.

It’s exquisite surveillance magic, a customized sequence of charms; James hopes he doesn't have to kill whoever it is that’s at the other end.

\---

The silk thread, now woven into a thin braid, leads James to a row of flats above a row of shops in one of Muggle London’s boroughs: a bakery, an embroidery store, a bookstore and one selling antiques. It’s all terribly homey and quaint, and the townsfolk that populate the area are a fair mix of the elderly with a younger crowd, university students stubbornly living on a tight budget for a chance at independence.

James can definitely see a resourceful wizard or a witch hiding in midst of such normalcy.

With the silk braid around his wrist, James feels the difference in the air here, like buffeting air currents circulating around each other, charged with the faintest hint of lightning. He strolls up and down the street front until he finds a spot where the charge is the greatest; it ends up disintegrating the silk entirely, but James has found his source.

He buys a hot bun from the bakery and ducks into the stairwell leading up to the flat above on his way out. A detection spell shows that the front door is free of magical protection, so James leaves his wand tucked away and goes for the lock picks instead.

The flat opens up into a wide space, sitting room merging seamlessly with a small kitchenette. It’s dim, the curtains drawn over the windows; in the faint light the room is an image of controlled chaos. There are books stacked in neat piles all over the place, often with an empty mug and accompanying coaster perched on top. There’s a small television, and a desk with headphones and coiled wires and cables surrounding an empty rectangle of space – a laptop, no doubt out with its owner at the moment.

All in all, it is the picture of a typical Muggle university student’s flat.

There are three doors leading away from the main living space: a bathroom, a bedroom – no signs of magical artifacts there – and a locked room. James goes for his lock picks again, and for good measure, draws his wand to dispel any nasty trap spells lining the door frame. 

The wash of magic, when James finally nudges the door open, spills over him like the lap of warm water against his skin, subtle and quiet and all encompassing. The space is clearly a caster’s room – there are bookshelves lining the walls and a desk pushed to one corner, with what looks to be a spell component kit atop it. Runes are cut into the marble tiles lining the floor – expensive, but a much better conduit than the smooth floorboards covering the rest of the flat – and at the very center of the room is a holographic map suspended in midair, shimmering like a mirage.

It’s surveillance magic like nothing James has ever seen before. There are flat parchment maps of physical spaces that detail the movements of the inhabitants within, but those don’t contain the level of detail or magnitude that this map does. There are layers to the magical map and the longer James studies it the more confident he is that it’s a representation Muggle London in about a five mile radius around the flat, with little flares of light flickering in and out of existence.

It’s a beautiful work of magic, and it distracts James enough that he barely registers the soft footsteps just beyond the room’s door.

" _Stupefy_ ," a voice snarls, and James deflects the spell with reflexes honed to a hair-trigger in battle, and throws his own hex in the same breath.

The boy – and it is a boy, not a known Death Eater, long-limbed and slender – ducks with rare grace under the desk, James's stunning spell bringing the bookcase behind it crashing down. James throws a protection spell in the boy’s direction – he wants to learn more about the unique brand of magic in the room, not snuff out its creator’s life – and feels relaxed enough to glance at the magical map; it stays intact despite the flurry of flying books.

The boy rolls out from under the desk, casting; a ball of fire hurtles James’s way, and instead of throwing back more magic, James dispels the fire and sweeps the boy – young man, really; like most of the children who survived the Second Wizarding War, he has shadowed, mature eyes under his glasses – off his feet and kicks at his hand, summoning the wand out of his slackened grip.

The young man just stares up at James for a moment, seemingly stunned, until a gleam of sharp silver flashes in his hand, the switchblade flicking open with a hiss.

 _Good for him_ , James thinks approvingly, because too many wizards are dependent on their wands, only to be easily cut down the moment they are disarmed. The blade won't do much against James, not when he's battle-trained and competent with both Muggle weapons and firearms – at least that's what James thinks, until the young man flips the blade around and angles it directly under his chin, one hand on the handle and the other directly under it. A single sharp push will shove the blade through his throat and into his brainstem.

His eyes are utterly unafraid, his voice steady even when the blade tip slices into his skin as he speaks, drawing a single bright bead of blood. "This room is blood-spelled. You won't take any information from me."

Oh, how intriguing. A blood spell is powerful, fueled by the lifeblood of the caster, and very, very potent with a life given in full. The taking of a life means it should be Dark Magic, almost up there with the three Unforgiveables, except the room is going golden, the spell map and the runes carved into the floor tuning to their caster. James knows this intimately: magic is inherently neutral and it's the intent behind the spell that gives it weight. A life given freely and unflinchingly makes it the rawest form of magic, and the caster's intent – of protection – is what makes it benevolent.

James doesn't doubt that if the young man kills himself, the room and everything in it, including the map and James, will be completely destroyed, but the destruction itself won't escape the limits of the room. The young man’s neighbours and the bakery below would be quite safe.

James deals with the bottom most dredges of both the Muggle and Wizarding society as an Indeterminate, but he respects this young man already.  

Slowly, keeping his wand hand steady and unthreatening, James draws up one sleeve of his button down shirt, and then the other, showing the young man the unmarked skin of his arms. “I’m not a Death Eater,” James says. “And I don’t mean you any harm.”

The young man glances at James’s wand pointedly. “You broke into my flat and my spellroom and threw curses at me. Try again.”

James shrugs. “Your surveillance magic caught me several times. I don’t like being observed, not with magic I can’t identify or untangle. So I came to find the source.” He catches the young man’s gaze and holds it. “If you meant no ill intent, then you can expect the same from me.”

The young man considers that thought. He shifts carefully, repositioning himself so he’s less sprawled out over the floor and better positioned to move, one foot curled under him, and his hands don’t waver on the blade, keeping it ever near his throat. “Prove it.”

“I’m going to cast a spell,” James warns him, and does just that. The Patronus charm comes as easy as breathing to him; he barely needs to gather his thoughts and then there’s a silver fox leaping from his wand, landing featherlight and graceful, ears pricked forward in attention. After a moment, sensing a distinct lack of Dementors and other dark creatures, its ears go back and it sniffs in James’s direction as if in affront before turning pointedly away. Instead of coming back to him, his fox pads up to the young man’s side, curling its tail neatly around its paws and ghosting its nose curiously at the young man’s hands, still locked steady around the switchblade.

The young man’s eyes are wide with surprise and not a small amount of wonder, and that together with his unruly curls makes him seem much younger, all of a sudden. He’s barely out of his teens – in his early twenties, if James is being generous – and James folds himself to the ground.

“First time seeing a Patronus?” he says, and the young man shoots him a half-hearted glare. But his eyes track back to the fox, sitting patiently at his feet as if awaiting scritches, and finally he draws the switchblade away and very tentatively brushes the tips of his fingers along the fox’s ruff. The fox studies him and then butts its head entirely into the young man’s touch, wisps of silver clinging to and then wreathing around his hand like smoke.

Patronuses are normally intangible, and the fact that the young man feels enough resistance to very gently pat at the fox’s snout is quite interesting indeed.

“I want my wand back,” the young man says, and his eyes are guarded but no longer pinched with tension.

“Not yet,” James says, but before the young man can react, he sets both wands in the space between them. It doesn’t make James any less dangerous, but it’s a gesture of disarmament; a wizard’s most prized possession is often his wand, his primary link to the magical world. “How about a name?”

The young man’s eyes are trained on the wands; James wonders if he’ll make a break for it, but then he straightens and draws away from the fox, flicking the switchblade closed.

“Koppa,” he says, and at James’s raised eyebrow, retorts, “Did you think I was going to give you my real name? Koppa is my main alias online. If Greek is too foreign a language for you, you can use Q.”

“Online,” James says. “On the internet.”

Q – it’s less of a mouthful than Koppa – glances at him. “Yes. On the internet, as Muggles do. Oh shit,” he says suddenly, making an aborted movement as if he wants to stand. The fox skitters away, light on its feet, but Q just settles back, resigned. “My laptop. All this magic must have scrambled the hard drive by now.” He turns a sudden baleful look on James. “I keep this room sealed for a good reason. Who the hell are you?”

He should appear like a kitten with his claws bared, ferocious but ultimately harmless, but James remembers the way Q had held the switchblade; the smudge of half-dried blood across his throat is quite a good reminder that the young man is not to be taken lightly.

“You can call me James,” James says, deciding to stick to the most basic truth. “And I’m affiliated with the Unspeakables from the Ministry of Magic.”

“Oh,” is all Q says, his mouth going thin and pressed like he’s trying very, very hard not to swear up a storm. And then, “Surveillance magic isn’t illegal.”

“Surveillance magic of this type, perhaps,” James says blithely. “If only because it’s quite hard to propose a law against something that hadn’t previously been created yet.” He reaches out and taps carefully at the curve of a carved rune. “But performing magic of this complexity and scale in the middle of Muggle London without a license is quite problematic.”

James is often at the attack end of the spectrum, not interrogation, but he knows there are several ways this can go. Some will fold and capitulate, or go the other extreme and attempt to bluster their way through. Anger, guilt, resignation – those are all familiar responses—

—and then there are the complex ones, the ones who don’t easily betray their reactions, the ones who keep their cool and don’t give in to their instincts.

Those are the most dangerous ones.

Q watches him for a long time, uncaring of the deepening silence, chin lifted not in defiance but in self-confidence, his restless fingers tapping against the closed switchblade still at his side the only indication of his thoughts.

“What do you want from me,” he says at last.

“Well,” James sits back comfortably on one heel. “Let’s start with why you created the map, and if we have time, how.”

“Why do we do the things we do,” Q says softly. “They say that laziness and conflict give rise to the greatest innovations. Personally, I feel that fear is a really great motivator.”

“The War.”

James doesn’t have to guess; it’s only been three and a half years since the end of the Second Wizarding War.

“Yes,” Q says. James’s Patronus fox, previously prowling careful circles around the room, pads back to Q’s side. It goes down on its belly and watches him with ghostly eyes, near but not quite touching. “I ran and hid in Muggle London because Wizarding Britain wasn’t particularly safe for me. At first I cast a simple Tracking spell to keep in contact with some of my friends, but as the chaos spread and more people started dying, I had to keep modifying the spells until I had a chain-reaction of charms. It was easier to arrange them into a sequence that would automatically cast when I activate the spell. Eventually, I refined it to the point where I could track several persons of interest and monitor some of our surroundings; it got us out of trouble a few times.”

He raises his arm and brushes his hand through the globe map; the little scale models of the streets and buildings spark at the touch, but fall back into their neat lines right after. “The map you see up there, I didn’t really start working on the refinements until after the War. I just—it was something to take my mind off things.”

There’s the faintest thread of pain twining through Q’s voice, and James decides to shift the topic a degree over. “And the how? Casting such widespread magic needed for surveillance in the midst of Muggle London is extremely difficult, even when the magic is passive.”

Q stares at the fox instead of meeting James’s eyes; it’s not a deflection or avoidance, but more of consideration.

“Druids track sacred spaces by the earth’s ley-lines,” he says. “And the earth itself is a great geomagnetic field that many of our magical creatures navigate and live by. I know Muggle technology goes haywire around magic, but our magic _works_ even when we’re right here in Muggle London, and both magic and Muggle technology do operate by some of the same principles of natural law. I just thought – what if we try to marry aspects of magic with that technology? Not to physical artifacts, because they have a tendency to become sentient, but something intangible.”

James wonders, at the back of his mind, just how many phones Q might have accidentally brought to life with practical experimentation of his theory. “And what would that be?”

“Electromagnetic waves,” Q says. “They would get completely wiped out in a magical space like Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade, but here in Muggle London, technology is widespread enough that magic must bend to them. Or in this case, piggyback on them. I used the Muggle wi-fi network to carry and broadcast my magical signal. Wireless internet is becoming increasingly popular – that’s how I can get the level of detail on my maps.”

James has witness all manner of incredulous situations in his line of work, so his expression doesn’t change at all. His Patronus fox, on the other hand, is staring right up at Q, ears pricked forward in fascination.

“You’re very well-versed in Muggle ways for a wizard,” is all James says aloud, an understatement of the grossest sort. He blends in well enough in Muggle London and knows how to use most of its technology, but Q is speaking of levels of knowledge that is far beyond anything taught in Muggle Studies or the Muggle training modules at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Electromagnetism is not a subject that can be picked up while simply navigating the Muggle world; it’s something that must be studied, the theory learned and then carried out in practice.

Q just looks at him. “I’m Muggle-born and schooled and raised,” he says. “Six years in the Wizarding world doesn’t erase that.”

James tips his head back to look at the magical map still hanging suspended above them. If that’s what Q can do with six years of formal magical schooling and undoubtedly much more self-study and research after that, then James would love to see what he can do with the full resources of the magical world backing him.

Q is careful, but he has dropped more than enough clues that James can begin piecing things together. There’s just the one primary level magical institute of learning in Britain, and the mention of six years implies that Q didn’t finish his education before he hid himself in Muggle London. There’s one very famous young man by the name of Harry Potter who had six years of schooling at Hogwarts before he had his seventh year utterly wrecked by Voldemort’s rise to power, and Q looks to be the right age to fit the same timeline nearly perfectly.

Assuming Q’s birthday falls early enough in the year, he would have been seventeen and of-age in the Wizarding world by the end of his sixth year – he could use magic freely, within reason. And with magic and the rising chaos from the War, Q is entirely capable of faking his Muggle identification records so he can live on his own, and get cleanly away with it.

“Why didn’t you go back to finish your studies? There are plenty of exemptions given because of the War, and with N.E.W.T.s under your belt you’ll be able to make a space for yourself in the wizarding world.”

 _Why are you still hiding,_ is what James really means to ask, and something trips in Q’s eyes the moment he figures out that James has figured it out. He goes very still and tense before he forces himself to move, his hand a little stiff and jerky as he pets the fox, who is now chewing on his fingers, although its teeth have no effects on anything that doesn’t have darkness in it.

“What’s the point? I’m Muggle-born, so I’m quite comfortable here.” And then, very softly, Q says, “And I’m a Slytherin.”

 _Oh_ , James thinks, the final piece of the puzzle falling into place. He doesn’t miss the way Q’s other hand has tightened around his switchblade.

“Studying at Hogwarts was an entirely different experience. I don’t think I’ve ever found a more amazing place, but by my last few years… things changed. I didn’t want to be sacrificed in the name of the so-called Dark Lord, or to force my friends to make that decision.”

His voice goes odd on the last word, near strangled, and he glances away.

James stays quiet.

"They were scared, and so was I. The night the Headmaster died, a few of the older Slytherins left to join their families. But others—helped me and some of the half-bloods to get out." Q blinks, almost owl-like under his glasses, and surprisingly his eyes seem to lighten, the resilience of his youth overpowering the shadows. "I, um, I might be on the death registry. As one of the casualties of that night, or maybe during the final Battle, I don't know. Slytherins can be overzealous when we’ve decided on a course of action. After all of that – there just wasn’t much incentive to go back."

He doesn’t have to say anything further. Being Muggle-born in Hogwarts, much less in Slytherin house, during the years of the War would have been perilous, especially after Voldemort’s open return to power. And being a Slytherin in the years after means an immediate associate with the Dark Arts; House pride means much less after graduation, but if James hadn't been an Indeterminate he would face a lot more opposition for his position in the magical military hierarchy.

Only a scant handful of students now populate the dungeon dormitories at Hogwarts.

“I know,” James says. “I’m also a Slytherin. And faking a death is a very good move, especially when it’s pulled off successfully.”

Q shoots him a look of surprise, more for the revelation of his house than for James’s last statement. The fox lays its head directly in Q’s lap now, and looks back at James with silvery, knowing eyes.

Well, James has discovered an unexpected boon; he’s never been one to let his targets to slip out of his grasp, and he’s not going to start with an asset like Q.

“What do you want from me?” Q asks again, and his tone is much more curious this time.

James smiles. “What if I gave you an incentive to return to the Wizarding world?”

“Do I have a choice?” Q throws back without hesitation, as if he expected the question. James makes himself a mental note to find out just how many people know about Q’s magical experiment; the fact that Q set up a blood-spell in the room means he’s prepared for the worst.

“You do,” James says. “The Unspeakables could always do with more innovators like you.”

Q stares at him. “You must be joking.”

“Not at all,” James tells him.

There’s a segment of the Unspeakables that truly does carry out research up in the Department of Mysteries, but that’s more of a smokescreen and a pastime than anything else. Confronting the immaterial such as love, death and time is all well and good and works incredibly well to deflect the attentions of the idly curious, but the Unspeakables are called so for a reason – their true work is entirely behind the scenes, their operations conducted clandestinely. The elite and the specialists who don’t quite fit into any other Ministry department – the Unspeakables claim them all, eventually.  

But only if they come willingly. Loyalty to the cause is the only thing binding the Unspeakables to their duty – not fortune, and certainly not fame.

Q, who started his work as an effort to safeguard himself and his friends, and later continued it entirely in secret, would likely be a good fit.

“What do the Unspeakables even do?”

“Anything and everything,” James says. “The Aurors have Wizarding Britain well in control – we’re the ones who bridge the gap between their work and the Muggle world, and represent Britain’s interest on foreign soil. We also carry out clandestine operations that the Aurors won’t, or can’t, carry out under the name of the law. Hence the name, Unspeakables.” Both Eve and Tanner might skin him alive for spilling Unspeakable secrets, but as an Indeterminate James’s stories are his to share or to take to the grave, if he so wished. “I’m an active operative. During the War, I was here in Muggle London, hunting Death Eaters. If you join us, however, it would be as a specialist or a consultant; you aren’t required to operate directly in the field, if you don’t want to.”

There’s a quiet, intent look on Q’s face; his back is straight, like he’s on the brink of action. But when he speaks, it isn’t quite what James anticipated.

“The National Gallery a few weeks before the end of the War,” he says. “Was that you?”

Arcing an eyebrow, James says, “Yes.”

“What about Westminster the week before?”

James pauses. “That should have been me. But neither the Aurors nor the Unspeakables received any warning for that one. We stationed lookouts throughout Muggle London, after that, for other attacks.”

The attack on the National Gallery was memorable, standing out as one of James’s overwhelming successes after the absolute disaster that were the tribunal buildings in Westminster. The latter was a perfect ambush by the Death Eaters; after that, James had gone into the National Gallery battle with his mind utterly clear and focused. Only Death Eaters-affiliates had died that day.

“I made—acquaintances,” Q’s voice drops on the word, as if he’s trying to decide if it’s the correct one, “when I first came permanently back to Muggle London. They didn’t know that I’m a wizard, so I couldn’t always warn them or make them believe when I—” he cuts himself off, the fox leaping swiftly away as he scrambles to his feet, scooping up his wand with a practice hand as he goes. “Let me show you something.”

He realizes, perhaps a moment too late, that James would have full grounds to stun him for taking up his wand without warning like that, and glances at James. When James doesn’t twitch, Q takes the implicit agreement for what it is and flicks his wand hand.

The door to the spellroom snaps shut, and the books scattered across the floor tidy themselves up, although Q keeps them on the floor outside the circle of runes rather than returning them to the shelves. Taking the cue, James pockets his own wand and retreats to the sides of the room, the fox joining him, tail curling around James’s ankles; Q on the other hand, takes a step forward, comfortable in his own territory, pushing his glasses back into place before he raises his wand.

He murmurs an incantation too quickly and too softly for James to catch, but his gestures for the spell are light and graceful, like his wand is an extension of him rather than just at tool in his hand. The air around them goes from seawater warm and languid to lightning-charged in an instant, and the magical map at the center of the room coalesces into life, flaring bright and expanding outward until they wash up against the boundary of the runes, separate globes sparking into existence around the room like planets circling a sun, a miniature solar system contained within the spellroom.

The map is no longer just of the five mile radius around them. In fact, it looks like a substantial portion of Muggle London – James knows his topography from numerous flights above the city, and there are quite a few landmarks and keystone buildings that he navigates by. The separate globes in orbit are micro views, areas of interest that Q has homed in on for some reason or another. They all contain a flare of blue-white flame, which have also appeared on the corresponding areas on the focal map; in the very center is a particular flame which glows with the intensity of burning magnesium.

“That’s me,” Q says, following James’s gaze. “My trace is always the strongest, likely because I’m the catalyst for the spell system.”

“And the blue flames?”

“Friends. They carry a mark that identifies them; if they want to travel undetected, they can easily leave the token behind. But that’s not what I wanted to show you.” Q brings up his wand to chest height. “ _Quaerere_ ,” he says clearly, and then, with a quick loop of his wand to connect the spells, follows up with, “ _Magicus_ _agnosco_ – phoenix feather. Dragon heartstring. Unicorn hair. Veela hair—”

He’s calling out the magical cores found in wands, James realizes, and as Q does so, the central map lights up with varicoloured flares – violet, crimson, silver. Q’s own trace goes gold-tinged, and beside it is a flare of crimson, because James’s wand contains a dragon heartstring core, and evidently so do the wands of two dozen or so other people currently in Muggle London.

“—Thestral tail hair,” Q finishes, and slashes his wand once to end the spell.

“Thestral tail hair,” James says.

“Hogwarts has a herd of Thestrals, it’s not impossible,” Q says, pointing at one of the circling globes – the blue-white flame within has picked up a darker tinge of azure. “There are more unconventional wand cores out there, but I needed the components themselves to work their trace into the spell. So I had to leave those out.”

James carefully revises his mental file on Q – he might be in hiding but he still has contacts in the Wizarding world, one of whom likely has access to Hogwarts, and numerous others who are scattered across Muggle London itself.  

“You’ve just traced every wand-carrying witch and wizard in Muggle London,” James says very calmly.

“Not all of them.” Q glances at the map around him, at the scattered flares of light. “I haven’t finished mapping out parts of London, and the places where wireless Internet hasn’t gained traction, we get dark spots there. Because the surveillance runs on the back of Muggle technology, this won’t pick up any signals near any of the hidden entrances leading into Wizarding London. And a perfectly cast Untraceable charm or any similar spell would distort the signal. Of course, most spellcasters don’t bother hiding their wands, do they. Especially if they intend to do violence through magic.”

“So you used this during the War to identify wand-carrying casters,” James says.

The glow of the maps casts light across Q’s face, glinting off his glasses and highlighting his cheekbones and the edge of his jaw, making his features seem much sharper.

“At first, it was to catch anyone who was tailing those of us who left Hogwarts. Friends would know how to contact us clandestinely, but we couldn’t be sure that they wouldn’t be followed by less well-meaning individuals. Then, when the Death Eaters began targeting Muggles—" Q pauses, to catch his thoughts. When he speaks again, his words come much slower; controlled. "My map wasn't always this detailed. And the trace only picked up larger concentrations of wand cores, so usually not much turned up when I ran that particular spell; it's harder to hide in groups so most spellcasters who ran here kept to themselves. That day, numerous traces congregated in Westminster, far too many and too quickly for a benign gathering. I contacted a few friends, but we weren’t anyone important, we couldn’t get through to the relevant authorities. I had no way of knowing what really happened until I read the news the next day. A major gas leak explosion, it said.”

Silent reigns for a long moment. Q's knuckles are white from how tightly he’s gripping his wand. “I kept watch, after that. I don’t know what the hell I thought I could do; I had all this information from the system, but no reasonable action plan. A lot of university students go to the National Gallery – art history majors, writers, even the engineers, for the breath of space to think. When another dozen traces converged on the National Gallery, I panicked. I called the Muggles I knew, but then, on the map, the flares flickered out, one by one.”

He turns his head to meet James’s gaze squarely. “Because you snapped the wands, didn’t you. When the Death Eaters died.”

It’s been a long while since someone has confronted James so directly; James can feel the smile flicking over his lips, quick and dangerous, although he tempers it immediately. “We destroy the wands for anyone who is convicted and would have been sent to Azkaban, yes,” he says quietly. “That certainly applies to any Death Eater who is killed during an attack. Their guilt is quite undeniable, after all.” 

Q turns to look at the focal map, at the dozens and dozens of varicoloured glowing traces.

“I’ve thought about putting other parameters into this. Not just wand cores, but indicators of dark magic, perhaps. And tracing non-wand carrying spellcasters; wandless casting might be less precise, but anyone capable of it would be a force to be reckoned with.”

James isn’t sure what prompted his sudden bound of honesty, but he says, “That would include me, then.”

Q throws him a slightly wide-eyed look, suddenly skittish, although he doesn’t back away.

“If you had me—if you had the surveillance system during the War, would it have prevented the massacre at Westminster?” There’s the smallest hint of a shake in Q’s voice. “I don’t want the Aurors anywhere near this, but the Unspeakables could keep this secret, and you’d be able to use the information, wouldn’t you?”

Or perhaps it isn’t James at all. Perhaps it’s the strain of someone who is so used to hiding, now offering themselves up to an unknown organization who is tied to a government that had, for a brief but devastating period of time, established the Muggle-Born Registration Commission. But Q’s head is lifted and his gaze is resolute, and he says, as if needing to further convince James, “If I knew how the Unspeakables operate, I can customize the system to the needs of your operations. I didn’t have much direction before this, but give me any set of parameters and I can likely find a way to make it work.”

James believes him. Q single-handedly created a magical surveillance system on par with something James expects from a dedicated team of Aurors or the Unspeakables research team. And to do it for the Muggle world, accessing the places where all levels of the Ministry of Magic have always had difficulty tapping into discreetly – James would believe Q capable of just about anything, at the moment. 

“I did invite you to join the Unspeakables.” James glances at the miniature globes and the blue-white flares with their wand core tinges within. “We would accept your friends as well, if they were involved.”

It’s a quiet noise, barely audible against the soft hum of magic, but the sound of a blade slicing through air is distinct, at least to someone like James. Q’s hand is steady on his wand. His other hand is hidden at his side, but James doesn’t see the switchblade anywhere else.

“No,” Q says. “They helped, but I’m the one who invented the system. The magic here is tuned to me alone. If I go with you, the specifics of this system remain with me. I’ll help you – I want to – but it’s me, and no one else. Not unless they choose to reveal themselves.”

Identification is the first step to registration, and while surveillance can be done in the name of good, it also destroys the first line of defense – anonymity – for many who go into hiding. The International Stature of Wizarding Secrecy was put into place, after all, to safeguard spellcasters during a time when distrust and hysteria overpowered any goodwill.  

How the strain of war tempers simple metal to a blade’s edge, James thinks. Diamonds are formed under immense pressure, at least outside of alchemy, and he’s found one, pure and hard enough to cut through all other material in the world. 

Careful to telegraph his movements, James reaches out slowly and carefully takes the opened switchblade from Q’s hand. Q doesn’t blink, but at least he doesn’t hex James either. The Patronus fox winds easily through the active surveillance magic, and leans up to touch its nose to Q’s now empty fingers.

“Every organization has its secrets and its agendas, so I can’t promise you that the Unspeakables would be the paragon of virtue; if fact, most of the time, we’re not. Mostly, we do whatever it takes to safeguard the United Kingdom and that includes the Muggle sectors of the nation.” James snaps the switchblade shut. “So yes, we’ll take you, and we’ll use your surveillance magic because it’s nothing I’ve ever seen before, and sometimes you won’t even know what we’ll be using it for. But as a specialist you get to set the parameters on your system and choose what you’re willing to share, and if you need to get out or to destroy the information you’ve given us, I will help you. You won’t need to use any blood-spells.”

“Do all Unspeakables have an exit strategy?” Q asks.

This time, James’s smile is wide with dark humour. “Not at all. I’m bound to the Unspeakables and their objectives, although that’s ultimately by choice. But you’re not an Unspeakable yet and there’s been enough senseless death, don’t you think.” He holds the closed switchblade out. 

Q’s hand is cold when he takes the blade back from James. “Somehow, I don’t think the Unspeakables do things halfway,” he says with a quiet, near soundless laugh. His eyes are brighter when he looks at James, though, no longer shadowed by nihilistic thoughts. “Then—yes. I know the War is over, but I want to help.”

“And the Unspeakables are happy to accept,” James says, a touch of formality in his voice. There’s power in ritual, for all that this conversation barely counts as one, but it’s a contract sealed in words. There will be a much more formal and binding procedure if Q does officially become a member of the Unspeakables, but for now Q has offered himself up to the Unspeakables and the Unspeakables will take him in, on James’s word, but in there is the clause that James will help him leave, if Q really wants to.

There are some assets – some people, James corrects himself – who shine so much brighter when flying free, after all.

“If I may ask a favour, though.” Q has dropped his wand hand now, trailing his fingers lightly over the fox’s ears.

"What is it?"

Q's smile is small but sincere. "I’d like to learn how to cast the Patronus charm.”

James has to stifle a chuckle, because one of the requirements of becoming an Unspeakable is the ability to cast a corporeal Patronus charm.

“Yes,” James says, “Yes, we can do that.”

**Author's Note:**

> \- Six years at Hogwarts and having the Battle at Hogwarts happen in Q's seventh year means that he's in the same year as Malfoy and the Golden Trio. I would have liked to make Q younger to dissociate him from that gang, but genius or not, five years of formal schooling seems too short for Q to go on to self-studying his way into such advanced levels of magical theory. 
> 
> \- Three and a half years after the end of the War means this fic takes place around 2002. I don't know what wireless technology etc was like in London at that time but I hope it's widespread enough that it's capable of supporting Q's magical surveillance. 
> 
> \- Age difference. We already have it with canon 00Q, but Q is younger here, around 21. Bond would have been in Hogwarts during the First Wizarding War, putting him in his 30s. 
> 
> \- All foreign words are Latin except for Koppa, which is the ancient Greek letter that gave rise to the modern Latin letter Q. All of Q's online aliases are variations of Greek letters (hence Iota, Chi and Zeta in the Traceability Series). 
> 
> \- Is it weird that _Septem_ is seven/ _Decem_ is ten, but September and December are the ninth and twelfth months of the year? This really bugs me, to be honest. 
> 
> \- There's an 90% chance that there will be a continuation because I've already written a bunch of things that didn't go into this. There will likely be very little overarching plot, and mostly stuff on the random adventures of seasoned Indeterminate James Bond and the new Unspeakable recruit/consultant/specialist Q. 
> 
> \- _sic parvis magna:_ greatness from small beginnings


End file.
